The Other Side
by Kinsella
Summary: How would the lives of the surivors change if the plane had never crashed? Kate goes into the hatch...and finds out. KS, SS, CC.
1. Descent

Disclaimer: I do not own Lost it is property of ABC and Touchstone. The idea for this story, however, is all mine!

"I'll go."

"No."

"Don't be stupid, Jack! You already took one useless risk tonight, we don't need you to take another!"

"You are not going down there, Kate. You don't know what you will find!"

"Neither do you!" she shouted. "What would happen if we lost our only doctor, Jack! Think about it! Really think about it. What about the baby?"

"What about it?" Jack said, jaw set.

"She's right, Jack. That is a risk we cannot afford."

"Then you go," Jack replied, moving the torch over the hatch again.

"That's stupid too," Kate said. "You know this forest better than anybody. You can track things."

"Dude," Hurley replied, face shiny from sweat. "No one should go down there. The numbers are bad, man, bad. And if the raft works, we don't need to go down there."

"The Others, Hurley," Kate replied, hands on her knees. "We need a place to hide."

"I'm more afraid of those numbers than I am about the Others. And the caves are just as safe as this place."

"Not if they've seen the fires burning every night," Jack replied.

"Then it's settled," Kate said, grabbing the torch from Locke, and swinging a leg over the opening in the hatch. Her foot slid in open air for a minute, before finding the first rung. Jack grabbed onto her arm, hard, his face in hers.

"No!"

She wrenched her arm out of his. "This is my call, Jack. I'm 'second-guessing' you. I'm making a judgment call. And I'm not going to let your little hero complex make decisions like this for us." She took another step, disappearing up to her chest. Jack went to grab at her again, but Locke grabbed his shoulder.

"Go," Locke said, linking eyes with her. She felt a chill skitter down her spine as she stared into his dark eyes, glittering madly in the firelight. She remembered what Jack had said, that if they survived the night, they were going to have a Locke problem. He smiled at her, his face the same as that first day, except this time there was no orange peel. She gave a little nod, taking three more steps, till her chin was just above the opening.

"I'll be fine, Jack," she said, her voice more assured than she felt. "Don't follow me. If I don't come back up…we don't need to lose both of us."

"I won't lose you, Kate," Jack said, eyes shining brilliantly, clutching at the side of the hatch as if he would hurl himself after her.

She nodded, biting her lip. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she needed to say. She gave him a shaky smile, and disappeared into the endless chasm of darkness.

Her arms ached. The going was slow, arduous and hard. She had to be careful to hit each rung, because she didn't know how far down the hatch went. She could see the light from Jack's torch shining above her, but his face was no longer visible. Sweat dripped down her back, a curl fell lose from her ponytail and stuck to her face, but she couldn't risk trying to move it away. The only sounds echoing in the deep tunnel was her own loud pants, and faint clink her boots made on the metal rungs. She periodically checked to see if she could see the ground beneath her, but her torch showed nothing more than shadows.

She sighed, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. The air down here was thick and heavy, oppressing. She felt at a crossroads. She could still climb back up, back into the fresh air, back to Jack, back towards the light. Or she could continue down, down as Locke wanted her to, down into the darkness. She heard Jack's voice flitter across the opening, calling to her, begging her to come back. The fear was too much, the space was too enclosed, the darkness too black, the air to sour. She started shaking, her hands sweating so bad that the torch slipped, slamming the rungs as it went down, disappearing into the darkness, the dim light fading.

"One." Kate whispered, fear flooding her. "Two." She clutched the rung above her with both hands, setting her foot on the rung below. "Three." There was scuffle overhead, Jack trying to climb in and Locke and Hurley holding him back. "Four." She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead against the cold metal. "Fi-" Something grabbed her foot and yanked, hard. She was falling. She couldn't even scream. The darkness was swallowing her whole….


	2. Ascent

Disclaimer: I don't own Lost.

* * *

Her wrists ached. Her heart raced a horrible tattoo across her skull, clogging her mind, making her unable to focus. Her eyes were bleary.

"Sorry about that, folks. Please stay seated and the stewardesses will be around shortly to make sure you are alright. We will be landing shortly."

She blinked her eyes open. Beside her, the Marshall groaned into his breathing mask, a hand coming up to touch his bloodied forehead. People were talking, whispering, crying. But the plane was steady. The turbulence had passed. Kate pressed her face to the window, staring out across the wide expanse of sea, to the small island below, the mountaintops bright emerald in the sunlight. They were flying past it. Soon, it would all be a distant memory. Kate felt the blood rush from her head. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

"Ma'am? MA'AM?" Kate's head snapped up, staring at the smiling stewardess. "If you could just hold this gauze, I need to get some bandages, and we'll get your friend all fixed up." Kate numbly pressed her hand against the Marshall's head.

"Fixed?" she murmured. Yeah, the plane was fixed. They weren't crashing. Was it all a bad dream? Something in the orange juice? The plane hit a tiny pocket of air and Kate felt it shake, the sides gave an ominous groan, and hope, unbidden and new, bloomed into her chest. She knew it was wrong, that it was an awful thought, that she secretly wished for them to crash. But if they didn't, she'd be going to jail. She'd have no chance. But then, tall the people that perished would live. The people at the bottom of the waterfall, Boone, the Marshall. But if they didn't crash, if they landed in LAX, she would be locked up. She glanced around the plane, searching for a familiar face. She didn't recognize anyone. Hope began to wither, to die.

She was at a crossroads, once again. If they crashed, people would die. If they didn't, she'd go to jail. Who knows what would happen to the rest of the survivors. Boone wouldn't die, sure, but Shannon would never meet Sayid. Claire would never have been kidnapped, sure, but she'd be giving her baby up for adoption. There lives had changed on that island. But was it for the better?

The Marshall dragged her to baggage claim, by the chain attached to her handcuffs, like a dog on a leash. Kate kept hoping it was all some terrible dream, but the plane had landed safely, and she had been the last to embark. Now, people stared at her, sour looks on their faces as they saw the handcuffs. Kate kept looking, searching the faces in the sea of people at the airport, hoping to meet eyes with someone that would recognize her, that would remember…

Their baggage hadn't arrived yet. She was forced to stand back from the conveyor, the Marshall chatting at her the whole time, his face twisted into a hateful scowl. Kate kept her eyes averted, staring, boring holes into the back of Jack's head. He had loosened his tie, his jacket was over his shoulder, waiting patiently for the luggage. His face was worn, tired, older than it had ever appeared on the island. She knew that whatever was waiting for him here was not something pleasant. He turned slightly, feeling her eyes on him, glimpsing her face…then his eyes dropped to her handcuffs, flew back to her face, surprised, then he turned around, away. Kate had to force back tears. She was borderline hysterical, now, frantic almost. Walt was trying to wander off from Michael, who grabbed the back of his shirt and scolded him, loudly. Jin had Sun by the arm, muttering at her in Korean and shooting Michael dark looks for raising his voice. Hurley was bopping along to his headphones, oblivious to everything around him. Claire was rubbing her belly, slowly, her face drawn, sad. Charlie stood beside her, tapping his fingers impatiently on the metal of the conveyor, then shifting foot to foot, then staring at the clock, his face red and sweaty. Shannon was standing a little ways back, filing her nails, looking bored, while Boone waited for their luggage, his face set in a sneer. It startled her for a minute, to see him healthy and whole, but he tossed her a disdainful look, his lip curling, and turned away. Sayid was reading an Arabic newspaper, curly head down, his face strained. She couldn't find Locke or Sawyer anywhere.

The conveyor started up, and she turned back to look at the people she had come to call friends. Jin pushed against Hurley, attempting to grab a black suitcase that came around.

"Whoa, dude, chill," Hurley said, backing up so that his large frame didn't block the way. Jin said something, grabbed the case, and continued to wait. Further down the line, Claire struggled with her suitcase, her large belly preventing her from grasping it, and Charlie let it go on by, grabbing his guitar case as it went past. Sayid glanced up from his newspaper, noticing Shannon standing near him, and looked away. It was as if they had never known each other, like that hadn't shared experiences together that would connect people like nothing else could.

The marshal moved forward and grabbed his metal case containing his five guns. Kate felt her heart thud to stop. This was it then. This was how it all ended. He tugged at her, the handcuffs biting into her flesh.

"Jack!" she screamed. He turned, looking at her, eyebrows forming a furrowed line across his brow. "It's me, Kate!" Others were turning to look at her now. "Hurley," she pleaded.

"How do you know my name?" Jack demanded.

"Because we crashed. The plane crashed and we were the survivors. You too, Hurley, and Jin and Sun, Shannon and Boone, and Charlie, and Claire, and Michael and Walt and Locke and Sawyer. And I went through the hatch and-" She was cut off when the marshal tugged at her.

"Sorry about that, folks. Little Ms. Dodd here likes to cause trouble. We'll just be going now."

"No!" She shrieked, flinging herself towards Jack. "Please," she pleaded, her voice dropping. "Please remember."

He looked away. Kate felt crushed, she couldn't breathe, couldn't get enough air. The Marshall forcibly pulled her forward and Kate fell to the ground, her knees and elbows hitting hard enough to cause her to see spots. As the marshal forced her to her feet, she saw Locke, sitting in a wheelchair. She stared at him a moment, and he smiled at her, showing an orange rind in his teeth. The same, stupid smile he had when she had taken the shoes off of the dead body. Then she was being half-dragged as the marshal grabbed her arm, her feet dragging on the floor.

She saw Sawyer, then, lounging against a pole looking bored. She made a move towards him and the marshal tugged her back, his gun pressed against her side now. Kate linked eyes with Sawyer, willing him to remember, to help her. He stared at her, his face angry, then suddenly it softened, changed. He touched his mouth, staring at her in wonder.

"Freckles?"


	3. Wedding Bells

Disclaimer: I do not own Lost.

* * *

"I am sorry, but I have to ask. Do I know you from somewhere?" The voice that spoke was soft, gentle, and accented. Shannon looked up from her magazine, where she was sprawled across a sofa in Boone's offices. She twirled a lock of her blonde hair around her finger and lifted her face to the stranger.

Short black curls framed a face that could better be called magnetic than handsome. Black eyes blinked beneath a fringe of dark lashes that lay like smudges against darkened skin. They watched her, the expression in them unreadable, but kindness emanated from his easy stance and quick smile, that showed off a brilliant row of white teeth.

"No," Shannon said shortly, interest piqued enough to sit up from her slouch, showing off her lean stomach, pulling her shirt lower across the brief expanse of cleavage shown. "But we could remedy that," with a quick quirk of her eyebrows she watched the man transform before her. Kindness was replaced with disappointment and something else…something vague and wary. He straightened his back stiff and sharp with the precision that bespoke of military training.

"I am sorry then. Your face, it seemed familiar."

The door to Boone's office opened and he stepped out, a blue shirt brightening his already considerably light eyes. He looked perturbed, his face set into a scowl that seemed to be perpetual these days. A woman darted out behind him, small and dark, a huge diamond glinting off her hand. She stopped when she saw Shannon.

"Shan!" she cried in delight. "I didn't know you were home from Australia." The girl pulled the much taller Shannon to her feet and kissed the air around her cheeks. Shannon tried not to notice the way her makeup was mussed and her hair artfully tousled, or the skewed wrinkles of Boone's shirt.

"I just got in a month ago, Avion."

"Why Boone," Avion purred, turning to the other man. "You didn't let me know she was in town. Francis asked me to marry him."

"That's wonderful," Shannon said dully. Francis had been Shannon's last conquest before Brian, and was her current lover.

"Isn't it just?" Avion said, pulling back from Shannon. She discreetly smoothed her hair before smiling at Boone. "I really must rush off darling. Thank you for handling that disaster with caterer. I don't know what I would do without you," she simpered.

He smirked at her, his eyes flashing knowingly at Shannon. "I just want everything to be wonderful for your big day, Ms. Summerton."

"With you planning it, it will be," she added sweetly. "You must come, Shannon. It will be the event of the year. I'm sure you can find a date, even at this late a notice." The bite of her words was harsh, but cleverly disguised with the gentle tinkle of her laugh. "See you next week, Mr. Carlyle."

The Arabian gentleman cleared his throat. He had been silent through the whole ordeal, despite the obvious undercurrents of tension that ran high between the three young people. A month. It was still hard to believe.

"Ah," Boone said, turning. "Mr. Jarrah, I believe. We spoke over the phone. I am Boone Carlyle."

"I need to talk to you," Shannon hissed.

"Mr. Jarrah has an appointment." Boone said.

"I was here first. I was here before your little whore was too. This is important." Shannon seethed, through gritted teeth. Boone just smiled at her.

"Customers first, love, you know how business is."

"Not as cutthroat as you," she snapped.

"I can come back at a better time."

"No!" Boone said. "Yes!" Shannon shouted.

"I'll, uh, just be going then," he said backing towards the door.

"That is entirely unnecessary, Mr. Jarrah," Shannon said, lightly, grabbing her purse. "My brother will be able to see to _all_ of your needs. When he's not to busy thinking of himself." She stormed off, head held high, back stiff and straight.

"She is beautiful when she's angry," Boone said, holding his door open. "Perhaps that is why I like to make her so, Mr. Jarrah."

"Yes, yes she is. And call me Sayid."

Shannon bumped into a woman wearing an abayah at the bottom of the building. Her face was beautiful, her smile even more so.

"Excuse me," her accent was so heavy Shannon had a hard time translating it.

"Let me guess, tall, dark, and handsome? Upstairs with short, stupid, and spiteful," Shannon motioned to the large building behind her. Carlyle Incorporated was a large tower, large, glassy windows tinted against the afternoon sun. The woman looked up, shading her eyes. In that moment, Shannon hated her. She had a man who was good and kind, and loved her. Shannon could tell by the easy smile and the glow that emanated from her eyes and enveloped her whole face. She couldn't know how lucky she was. "Fifth floor."

"Thank you," the woman said.

"Pleasure is all mine," Shannon murmured, already signaling for a cab. She needed to see Francis. She needed the quick thrill of pleasure he gave her, then she needed to bitch him out about Avion, then dump his sorry ass and move on to the next rich, handsome boy that flashed her a grin…and a wad of money.

Boone escorted Mr. and soon to be Mrs. Jarrah from his offices, his head already filled with ideas. He had never done a Muslim wedding, and he needed to research quickly. They had offered a lot of money, needing to marry quickly for the Mrs. to stay in the states. But they wanted a nice wedding, lavish but small, elegant but informal. With a groan he rested his head on his hands. He needed help. He needed Shannon. She was good at this thing. Boone ran numbers, juggled figures, scheduled the decorator, the caterer, the florists, the musicians, comforted family members, and schmoozed the customers. Shannon was the one with the head for research, for bringing out the extra in the ordinary.

First he had to grovel. Shannon liked that, the pitiful, the need in his voice when he apologized, profusely. Flowers, chocolates, she liked the idea of romance. The idea that she held power over him, over his heart. But he had left it in that cold hotel room in Australia, when she had let go of her drunken inhibitions and opted for cold, empty sex. When her cool blue eyes flashed disgust and pity.

Never again. He'd never feel that way again, not for her, not for anyone. His career was weddings, his life was romance, but Boone Carlyle's heart was shriveled and dead. Shannon hadn't changed. She was still cold, still scathing, still every bit the catty socialite she had been before her impromptu elopement to France, followed by her escape to Australia.

His mother had not been happy to see her return. Had raged and shouted in a drunken fit that was her constant state these days. But she relented, giving Shannon a position in her offices and an apartment in her hotel. Shannon had resumed the quick, fast paced life she had left behind, parties, balls, money, and the dirty, empty life only the fabulously wealthy led. Boone had thrown himself into work, and had hired a less than respectable company to find Brian and…get his money back.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed the number that had been left for him. It rang three times before a voice answered.

"Yeah?"

"This is Carlyle. Any news yet?"

"No. I told you not to call unless it was important." The voice on the other line drawled.

"This is important," Boone snapped, rubbing at the headache that was forming over his brows. "It has been a month, and for all the time and money all you have been able to return to me is a measly three thousand."

"This thing takes time, finesse, the right applications of pressure. A con can't be rushed. You want your money back, doubled, it will take time. I promised results, Carlyle. And about that thing you were supposed to do for me?"

Boone unlocked the bottom drawer to his desk and pulled out a thick folder.

"I'll have that for you when you have my money. And just for collateral…Kathryn Dodd, formerly Kathryn Austin."


	4. Catch a Falling Star

I'd like to say a special thank you to Silver Spider for betaing my chapters.

This chapter is dedicated to my reviewers: beancounters, Anne, KatieIsLost, LOSTfan, Orlando-crazy, and chelsey. Without you I wouldn't post. Thank you for being so kind! I'm glad you like it, it is so fun to write! Thank you!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Lost, nor am I making any money from it!

* * *

The girl strode into the room, ignoring the smell of stale sweat and vomit. The man was sitting on the bed, picking at the peeling black polish on his nails. He looked up as she walked in, a falsely bright smile painted across her face. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him, sitting cross legged on the narrow bed, his face pale grey and clammy. She hated these rooms, awash solely in white. White walls, white floors, white linens. They even dressed the patients in the white, though blood smeared the front of the hoodie that the man wore, like some symbolic cross.

He sat up a little straighter, pushing limp blonde hair out of his face with a shaky hand. He watched her as she lumbered into the room.

"Good day, Mr. Pace," she said, brightly. They had told her never to use first names. Never make eye contact. She waddled to the window and threw open the white curtains. The sunlight filtered thinly through the bars on the window. The effect was no more cheerful, serving only to highlight the cold sterility of the room. She sighed and turned around, determined to make a difference. Her last case, Mr. Finbar, had been found dead in his home this morning, after having been released last night. She wasn't about failure. Her own life had enough of that.

"Charlie, is it? I'm Claire." She looked at his eyes. They were a pleasant blue, although they were shot through with red and glaring at her through a haze of hatred. Her smile wavered a bit, but she managed to make it strong.

"I don't need any bloody company," he said, his voice low and deadly calm. His British accent was strangely comforting in this place, similar enough as it was to her own.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said pleasantly, pulling out a blood pressure cuff and scooting around till she was standing next to him. "Do you mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me."

"Sod off."

She shrugged and sat heavily anyways, rubbing her swollen belly as she did so. He pressed himself against the wall as if she carried an infectious disease. It was grimly funny, but she managed to suppress her tired giggle. It seemed oddly out of place. He seemed lacking of humor.

"I need to take your vitals, Charlie."

"Didn't I already tell you to piss off, Ms. Maybe-If-I'm-So-Damn-Cheery-He'll-Forget-He's-Not-Here-Voluntary. Do you know who I am?" he asked, pressing his face into hers. She saw a fleck of dried spittle on his chin. His eyes were so painfully bloodshot. "I'm a bloody _rock god,_" his voice was still low, but took on a fevered pitch. "You are a nobody. Like that bitch that called the cops. I was fine. I'm not an addict! But that's fine. In another two and months I'll be out of here. And I'll be free to do whatever the fuck I want. So you want to take my vitals now and push more of that sissy shit on me, that's fine. Because it's better than jail. And because once I'm out of here, once Driveshaft is back on tour, there's not stopping me."

Her smile did crack and fade, and hard, cold reality swept through her blue eyes. She snatched his arm, harshly tugging the sweater up over his track marked skin. She sneered and tugged it in front of his face. "That's great. But I'll still be here when they drag your sorry ass back in from whatever toilet you fall and hit your head on this time," she patted his stitched forehead, roughly, "From whatever drugs you pump into your system to kill yourself with." She slapped the cuff around his arm, pumping it a little tighter than it needed to be. She slipped the stethoscope in her ears, barely containing the heated words she wanted to spit at him. She took his blood pressure, marking it carefully on his chart. She tore the cuff of him, trying to calm herself down. It didn't do her any good to get riled up, it didn't do the baby any good. It didn't do any good to get herself attached. She had to bite her lip to keep the tears at bay.

Dammit. Mr. Finbar said he was clean. Had said it with such sincerity she'd believed him. She had backed him for release. And had signed the papers. Signed the papers that had allowed him to turn the corner, purchase some low grade crack, and pump himself so high that he never came back down. Why was she so gullible? She had believed Malkin when he had given her money to come here as well. He had told her there were people, good people, to give her baby too. But there was no one. And when her money ran out, dried up, she was all alone. She swore never again. He said there had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. Something wasn't right. She had laughed at him. He wasn't right. He should go to a mental ward. She knew a good one, she worked the night shift, when she didn't pull hours at this rehab clinic.

She snatched Charlie's wrist that he had pulled back, glancing at her watch to take his pulse and respirations. Both were elevated. Dammit, so were hers. She flung his arm away, pushing herself off the bed with a bit of difficulty in her advanced pregnancy.

Charlie stared at her as she paced. She was so small, so tiny, with a stomach that seemed larger than life, and eyes that seemed to see too well into him. Her hair fell in a long ponytail down her back, cute little curls escaping to frame messily around her face, attributing to the fact that she was harassed. Harassed by patients like him. But it was her fault she was here. Her fault he was sweating and puking, and pulling at his stitches and bleeding from the nose. His nose that itched like hell. He rubbed at it, then at the stitches at his forehead. She took away his drugs, his sweet, sweet release into that heavenly euphoria, that exotic trip, that orgasmic, otherworldly experience that exceeded…she rounded on him, eyes a bit wild.

She came at him, wielding a pill like a knight wielding a sword. He was used to it, and she was small and fragile, unlike the nurse he had had for the first month, Fred. Fred had been able to physically force him to take the methadone. But he smirked as Claire attempted to force his jaw open. He even bit her finger lightly, for the hell of it. Her eyes glittered evilly, as she clamped her hand down on his nose, cutting off his air supply. He fought it, fought it till he turned blue in the face and tears ran from his eyes, then he opened his mouth, sucking in a deep gasp of air, the methadone pill, and the glass of water she poured relentlessly in after it, making sure that he swallowed. He pushed the paper cup away, brushing the water that cascaded out the sides of his mouth with a muffled curse. She was good. He'd give her that. He even admired her for the smirk she turned back on him.

She stood back, surveying her handiwork with a pleasant smile on her face. He hated her smile. She settled a hand on her stomach. He hated her stomach. The hope that the new life in their represented. The joy that it would bring her. He hated her for it. Hated her and her husband for it. Hated Liam's daughter, blonde haired and blue eyed like her. Hated Liam. He laid down and rolled so that he was staring at the wall. Because who he really hated wasn't Claire with her sunny voice and smile and eyes. It was himself. He squeezed his eyes shut. Charlie Pace, self proclaimed rock god, wished he could be anybody else.

She sat on the bed behind him as he rolled over. She had watched the transformation play over his unique features. The fear, the anger, the hatred, and the infinite sadness. She hadn't witnessed the despair, the grief, the acceptance, but she knew they would come. And she was determined to be there when they did. She placed a hand on his skinny back, feeling the sharp edges of his spine. He was so skinny from the drugs. She would see him fat and happy. She would. Because if he could make it, if he could survive, then she could too. She didn't know how, she didn't know why he signified it, but she put all her hopes, all her dreams, on this one. When he began to cry, she did the only thing she could think of.

She began to sing, quietly at first. But her voice grew in strength, as did her resolve, "Catch a falling star, and put it in your pocket. Never let it fade away! Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day!"


End file.
